Brilliancy of His Equations…
by CloseEncounters
Summary: Clarice Starling is tired of running… Is this a chance to turn everything around? Set one year after the book Hannibal
1. Offer she couldn't refuse

Disclaimer: Dr. Hannibal Lecter, Clarice Starling and other characters contained in these posts were created by and are the intellectual property of Thomas Harris. They are used herein without permission, but in the spirit of admiration and respect. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no profit whatsoever. Anything you recognize belongs to Thomas Harris, anything else is CloseEncounters©2004.

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This story set one year after the end of the book _Hannibal._ Remember, things are never as they may seem... 

I would like to express my special gratitude to _Lecter-in-love_ for the assistance and time provided while researching for some local knowledge for this fiction.

I hope you will enjoy reading the piece.

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**The Brilliancy of His Equations...**

_by CloseEncounters_

Clarice Starling felt their presence as soon as she entered the cobbled courtyard of the rendezvous place. Even before her keen eye could single them out from an idle crowd, thronging around charming little restaurants and amiable souvenir shops, she sensed the unmistakable excitement of the closing in hunt. Suppressed eagerness on their oddly blank faces betrayed them, seated at the tables with coffee and morning papers; perched on the unpolished fountain granite in the middle of the yard; leaned against the stone walls, half-hidden by the lilac spread…

She chose an empty table on _la terrasse d'un café_ and glanced at the menu.

This time her usual practice to arrive early and observe the meeting point from a distance failed to blend her in. She was spotted. _Damnit… _The hunters knew their prey. Starling acknowledged the moment. Her world was about to change. With the multitude of languages and attires swarming around her, with clacks of cameras and trills of titter rupturing the sun drenched air, she felt suddenly pierced and lonesome. The doldrums she'd long forgotten …

When she recognised the signs of a stake out she abandoned the schedule, and now, sipping coffee at the opposite end of the leafy courtyard, watched her contact, a lithe dishevelled man with foxy features, getting edgy and anxious as minutes passed the appointed time. She mused what was his payment.

_Money? Life? Freedom? What would they offer her?_

She wondered if she still had a bargaining power. If she ever had a bargaining power. _You're Joe Blow_, Clint Pearsall said to her once. She ought to remember it now…

Finally, the _foxface_'s got up, dropped a few coins on the table and moved off to the side street, leading to the Cathedral.

She closed her eyes, soaking gentle morning sun, breathing in the aromas of a backstreet bistro. Ground coffee, vanilla and roasted almond, cigarette smoke, lilac blossom and… freedom. Her face upturned, behind the sunshades her eyes opened and looked into the blue cloudless infinity with a resolve of a condemned whose time is up, her nostrils flared as if for the last ever breath. She felt some fear, she remembered the taste, and it tasted like a penny under her tongue. Spring breeze stroked a gun-powder spot on her cheek, played with the strands of her hair, autumn red around the porcelain face. Starling closed her eyes again, leaned back and waited.

To the passing tourists that flocked into this medieval French town, attracted by its noble and bloody history, she appeared as just another beautiful woman, judging by her elegant appearance and demeanour, probably, Parisian, definitely French, lazing with a cup of coffee as the touring crowds went by. To the bounty hunters, readying in the shady chill of the old courtyard, she was a treasured prize. A sure double 00.

Starling considered her options. Running was not an option. She was overwhelmed and outnumbered. They came en masse, bold enough to notice…

_Armed? Most likely… Moving people down and starting the framework for extradition as Crawford would've said… _Crawford…Her lips tightened. She had nothing to thank him for, yet she was grateful for so much…

A shadow fell on her face, something's blocking the sun. Starling looked up.

A young couple, brashly dressed, cameras pulling on the necks, held to the backs of the wrought-iron chairs, "You mind if we join you?" The man with a mop of sandy hair and a soft jaw line spoke with a Northern American accent.

_Upstate New York, maybe… _Starling didn't change her pose, just opened her hand in a gesture meaning _feel free_, watched the man to seat himself and place his camera on the table.

His companion was a young woman, frosty pale eyes behind a dry smile, black hair hiding a wire. She dumped a bright textile bag with a flap on her knees, slipped her hand in, held it there.

Looking right into the blue mirrors of Starling's shades the man said. "Hello, Special Agent Starling. FBI. Keep your hands where we can see them. And don't make any sudden moves…" He brushed the side of his jacket open and Starling glimpsed a sight of the gun sling. She registered that the world immediately around her shifted closer.

"I know the drill." She said.

"Good, then we can avoid the _un_-pleasantries… I am Special Agent Matt Laurie." A nod towards his companion. "Special Agent Bouvier."

They flipped out their badges, the woman's other hand remained in the bag, her cold eyes fixed on Starling. She lifted the bag just enough for Starling to see a black eye of a silencer, peeping through under the flap.

"Webley G10 spring action, loaded with tranquiliser dart, trained at your stomach, ma'am." Bouvier informed, expressionless, and dropped the bag back into position under the table. Starling considered the female agent for a moment. Attractive and ambitious. Should be a winning combination. _Don't spoil it with a smart mouth, girl_…

"You are a long way from home," Starling turned her attention to Agent Laurie. "Honeymoon, is it?"

Agent Laurie pulled his lips into a smile. "Be assured, Starling, we have a full cooperation of the French authorities." He glanced over his shoulder at the small stocky black-haired man with the eyebrows knotting above his nose, holding the spread of _"Le Monde" _and fingering his moustache. "This is Commissaire Bénard, our French liaison."

_You mean your French stooge… _Starling looked into the dull olives of Bénard's eyes and remembered the white-haired Chicago cop she shot at Muskrat farm.

_I bet you're wearing your off-duty pants, Commissaire_ _…_

"We've been looking for you, Starling." Agent Bouvier's voice tasted like sour milk.

"Have you?" Starling said without enthusiasm. "Now you found me."

"You are wanted for questioning by the United States Attorney in connection with the death of four people at Muskrat Farm including Mr Mason Verger and the disappearance of Deputy Assistant Inspector General Paul Krendler four years ago." Laurie waited for her reply and, when she didn't oblige, continued. "Also, we believe that you may have knowledge about the whereabouts of a fugitive felon Dr Hannibal Lecter."

Her trigger finger on her chin, Starling silently observed the agents around the courtyard that were scanning the passers by on the side streets.

_They aren't taking any chances…_

Suddenly she felt a peculiar sense of pride for the professionalism of the institution she once belonged to. _How odd… _For a moment she thought she was almost jealous of their structured _low-ceiling_ lives on the _right_ side of the law_. Right side of the law… Well God fucking shit…_ Decade old resentment brought back unsavoury memories…

For another moment she felt shame as a forgotten longing to be appreciated and recognised by the authority, by the wearers of the badge sliced through her right to the tips of her Italian stilettos…

_Appreciated and recognised… Not hunted down like mad dogs… _Starling was now fascinated with the tip of Laurie's nose that moved as he talked. _Is this a chance to stop running?.. _Her regretful lapse into self-pity remained unnoticed. _Would they have you back, you think? The FBI? _She heard a mocking voice in her head… _Fuck you, Doctor Lecter… This is it, isn't it?... _Laurie's dancing nose was the point of her attention while she was making her mind up. She took a deep quiet breath like an Olympic swimmer before plunging in. Another road of no return…

"We have reasons to believe that Dr Lecter is here, in France and that you, Starling, had accompanied him here. In fact, we believe," Laurie was clearly getting irritated by her silence and impasse, he leaned forward, his eyes now unpleasant, repulsion in the corners of his mouth, "that you, Special Agent Starling, are now Lecter's consort… and the motherfucker's whore."

Without taking his eyes off her, he pulled out a pack of photographs and covered the table with a swift move of an experienced card player.

As she looked down at the spread of the pictures, Starling felt a knot tightening in her stomach. The images were blurred and grainy but easily recognisable, taken at The _Opéra National du Rhin_ in Strasbourg a few weeks ago. All as damning as the _foxface _said

_Creepo son-of-a-bitch… must've been quite close to take some of these…_

Rage washed over her as she realized the extent of that pissant's intrusion into _their_ intimacy…

Laurie picked up one of the photos and held it to her face. From the depth of the draped ornate box the scant light picked out her forehead against the imperious arch of the nose like that of Peron, eyes closed, lips caught in the eternity of a kiss… She remembered the fire that spread from her cheek then, the sudden engulfing backdraft of desire… She remembered where her hand was at the time… Her skin tingled under the silk of her jacket and she wished she could keep the photograph.

"You do know, Agent Laurie, that visiting operais not considered a criminal offence in France?" Starling said.

"Hmm." He bared his teeth. "I'd like to remind you, Starling, that at the time of your disappearance you were under the Inspector General's investigation accused of unlawful disclosure of sensitive material to a fugitive felon. The investigation was never completed and you are still facing a possibility of criminal charges brought against you by the Public Integrity Section of the Justice Department and, subsequently, a trial."

"You know It was a frame… The events that followed…"

"The events that followed, Starling, lead to the murder of Mason Verger and the ensuing disappearance of Paul Krendler. Dr Lecter, in a mean time, still remains at large. Don't you think that people will be asking questions? And with this," Laurie waved over the photographs, "don't you see that you are implicated enough for the courts to take a different view? What did they call you in _Tattler? The Bride of Dracula?_ You'll go _down_, Starling, and for a long time – public doesn't like to think that FBI is just as fallible as they are, as they don't like the image of a trigger-happy crooked agent that shoots a mother holding a baby."

He saw her wince then and congratulated himself. "And when you do go down they'll _make_ you the _Bride of Frankenstein_ as down there in the nick they don't like federal agents even more, corrupt or not. Technically, by the way, you are still a federal agent on a rather prolonged administrative leave and…" he gathered the photographs, tapped the pack on the table, "in clear violation of your oath…"

Starling remained impassive as he said. "It's over. You can linger in a French prison for years while we argue your extradition or you can come with us now. One way or the other we are bringing you home – it's the end of the road for you, Starling…"

"What's the deal?" She said in a dull lifeless voice.

"You give us Hannibal Lecter, sweet and quiet, and in return you'll get discharged and enough to start anew some hush place. What is it going to be, Starling, thorns or roses?"

_Jesus, another politician in waiting…_

It turned her stomach to be reminded of Krendler's indulgence with catchphrases…

"Hey, an offer I can't refuse…" She felt dead. "What are my quarantines?"

Triumphant, Agent Laurie reclined back and in his kindest voice said. "We can discuss the details someplace else… Now, where is Lecter? Is he here now?"

"I don't know…" Starling shrugged, added, "I don't think so," as Laurie's expression twitched from quizzical to sceptical.

"So, the great Houdini keeps his assistant in the dark… Well. I am looking forward to your story." He stretched out his arm. "Pass me you purse and your jacket, Starling." He checked the jacket and rummaged through the contents of Starling's bag. "Are you armed?"

"No, sir, I'm not armed." She said.

He twisted his face in a smile. "No need to be so official, Clarice. Now that the formalities are out of the way, we are going to be good pals…"

"Go fuck yourself!" She said, noting a fleeting approval in Bouvier's eyes.

Agent Laurie grinned, stood up and motioned her to follow. The crowd around her suddenly thickened and as she was led away, sandwiched between the colourful shirts of the agents, tightly griped on her elbows, she caught a glimpse of shorthaired man in a business suit to fold his newspaper, take off the spectacles and look directly at her, a spectacle's arm pinched between his teeth.

_I'll be damned… Bob Sneed… _And she thought the shit couldn't get any deeper.

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_to be continued_

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Please, bear with me should you come across some grammatical mistakes, particularly, an incorrect use of "a" and "the".

I would greatly welcome your comments regarding my piece.

Thank you very much for your time,

CE


	2. Hook, line and sinker…

_Storyteller's Notes_: Thank you very much for your reviews and for your patience. I really appreciate your opinions.

Also, since I don't speak any French at all, making up French frases or recipes was like solving a puzzle, so, please, don't hold it against Dr Lecter if you spot some errors. I welcome your advice on the matter.

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_Disclaimer_: as in the first part as it is continuation of the story...

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Hours before Clarice Starling had a misfortune to walk into the FBI trap, a midnight fog engulfed Lower Normandy coastline and the seaside resort of _Deaulveille_. Towering over a beachfront, the magnificent _Royal Barrière_ hotel was now drifting in the sea of milk like a berthed ocean liner, rigs of festive garlands twinkling and swaying with the offshore breeze. Easter Festival of Classical Music was a success, with each event attracting more and more Philharmonic connoisseurs. 

Standing in the lavishly decorated lobby in the small hours of that fateful day Meredith Octavius found that his irritation with the world had finally became intolerable.

Lady M, as he referred to all of his girlfriends, – keeping things simple while appealing to their vanity – empted the last of the champagne into her ever so masterful mouth, nibbled on his ear and declared that she was hungry. His latest Lady M was a plump zesty woman with a huge appetite for pastries and pies, compared only to her appetite for sex.

Meredith Octavius D'Eath loved the sound of his name. The fact, that his real name was Melvyn Pratt didn't bother him at all. Since his mother's passing two years ago he was finally elevated from a son of the _Pratt and son_ to a Funeral Director. Ultimately, the world was his oyster…

Now that he was his own boss, he could at last live out his fantasy world, once banished to the privacy of the bathroom mirror or to the dressing room of the funeral home. In fact, more and more often he found himself playing the part he used to confine to an unwitting audience of corpses, waiting to be made up.

In all but the name… Still he had to suffer the humiliation of being referred to as irrelevant Mr Pratt. This was a point of insufferable irritation to Meredith Octavius. He deserved much better… Son-of-a-bitch porter should be bending over with due respect, rushing out to his signal red E-type Jag. "This way Lord Meredith"…

HE, Meredith Octavius, didn't give a shit for the genealogy trees – history is a book to doodle in at one's pleasure. Like the first Roman Emperor Augustus, born Caius Octavius, Meredith recognized his bona fide heritage and this striving for a proper acknowledgment had become his overwhelming obsession...

Among the peers he spoke the language of the gentile classes, he displayed the love for oysters and gourmet cuisine and talked fine vintage. He went to opera and demonstrated a forceful indignation when at the end of the performance the plebs rushed out before Meredith considered appropriate. "I was shocked and offended," he was telling later to a patron at the race meeting at Ascot. "Shocked and offended indeed, my lord…"

If Meredith Octavius could've been engaging enough to be Dr Lecter's patient, the latter, no doubt, would've observed that his mother had figured largely in his patient's value system as well as in his psychosis…

"Death is nothing to be frightened of, Melvyn," she used to tell her eight year old son, skilfully patching the bullet hole on the forehead of the latest casualty in the gangster warfare. "Death is money and the more is the better. Ah, who is a pretty boy now?" She would stand back and admire her handiwork, patting the corpse on a cheek. "Wait until your mother sees you, luvvie…"

Maude Pratt ran a quietly very profitable funeral business in the East End of London, handsomely assisted by a sizable unreported undertaking from the volatile underworld.

"There is no privilege among the dead – whether one is prince or pauper, – when they are on an undertaker's table they are heaved and prodded all the same…" Teaching the philosophy of life to young Melvyn while he assisted in dressing up the stiffs widow Pratt saw as her parental duty as well as a form of entertainment during the tedious hours around the lifeless listeners. "The poor bastards don't care what lining you lay them in… as long as the relatives don't know…"

"...Non, monsieur. I regret but the bar's now closed, Monsieur Pratt." Meredith Octavius was convinced that the concierge deliberately left out the last "t" of his _business_ name, the euphemism he came up with in his exasperation. Wishing he had a shirt under his cashmere pullover, he despised the fact that he had to leave the warmth of queen size duvet and the heat of Lady M's bosoms to face the son-of-a-bitch down here, at the reception, since the phone got him nowhere.

"Breakfast is served fr.."

"I don't give a fuck when you serve your breakfast, luvvie. Milady is feeling peckish NOW and I expect you to get off your arses and find me some… Get me a duty manager…"

"One moment, monsieur…" Meredith Octavius followed the neat narrow hand of the clerk to the receiver, polished nails, long feminine fingers, then pulled the small voice recorder out of his back trouser pocket. Meredith Octavius loved the sound of his voice…

"Note to myself. This place is full of fucking faggots… swarming around like flies… everywhere you go you have to watch your arse… "

Meredith Octavius paid a fortune to a voice coach to mellow his cockney into an English public school accent. The result was pretty good (stupendous, even if I say so myself), but not as good as the one that said into his ear: "An obnoxious little bugger, aren't you?"

Perfect Eton or Harrow, a slight metallic rasp beneath… Slowly Meredith turned to the fool that had an audacity to peel off the lovingly cultivated layers of gloss and class and get right to the wrinkled dwarf in a basement. Deep down that's all he really was and Meredith knew it; he kept that knowledge well, well hidden. And the fact and the immediacy with which this stranger knew it too were unforgivable.

Meredith looked up and first saw lips pulled into a smile. Menacing smile. _A vile smile…_ Meredith Octavius felt his blood boil with fury. When he looked into the stranger's maroon eyes, reflecting light in pinpoints of red, his blood turned into crushed ice, chilling shivers went down his spine. Instinctively, Meredith stepped back as to put a barrier between them. Futile attempt… The man opposite him, sleek and small, meticulously dressed, black dinner jacket under a fine cashmere overcoat faced him, untroubled and elegant, leaning against the front desk counter. Everything Meredith ever aspired to be…

For a moment or two the stranger observed Meredith with cold amusement, head slightly to the side, and then, as if Meredith Octavius was grime on a train window, looked right through him. He turned to the clerk and said something in French. It must've been hilarious since the clerk sniggered, respect and admiration in his attentive posture. Ignoring the "No smoking" sign, the man had a lit Cohiba Panatelas between his thumb and forefinger. He gave it a light puff, winked to the clerk, picked up his black fedora off the counter and walked out into the white dew of the folding night.

There he was, Meredith Octavius, the true heir to the splendour of Rome and ruthless nobility of the Renaissance, standing among the grace and grandeur that many rich and famous had trotted through, and everywhere he saw the reflection of the vile amusement and wicked admonishment that the stranger had left behind. The shining Perl of his oyster had turned perpetually dull…

The wrinkled dwarf of Meredith's soul stirred with white-hot anger in his bog hole and its long suppressed stench intoxicated Meredith with overwhelming sensations of hate and revenge. He'll make the fucker pay for his, Meredith's, frustration and humiliation. He'll have these strange maroon eyes bleed with pain and plead for mercy… And like the Roman Emperors before he'll take his time to decide the extent of his mercy…

"Have my car brought out. Now!" Meredith ordered, abrupt, in a croaking voice he barely recognised as his. His throat stiff and dry, fingers trembling from the finality of his intentions, Meredith Octavius went through the revolving doors and glimpsed the stranger to hand his half-full cigar to a porter and slink behind the wheel of a classic grey Bentley. The porter, puffing on the discarded Havana, gratefully pocketed a large tip as Bentley slowly moved off and into a pale haze of street lanterns…

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Turning of the _Boulevard Cornuché,_ threading the slender steering wheel of 1956 Bentley SI Countryman through his hands with a tender appreciation as though he was playing theremin, Dr Lecter checked the side mirror. Jaguar's long red nose popped into a view, headlights struggling with the fog clusters that seem to thicken into a soup along this coastal road to _Villers-sur-Mer._

As morning dawned, the road was empty, tranquil and blind. Suddenly the Jaguar leaped forward and, weaving in front of Dr Lecter, slowed down, coming eventually to a halt, blocking the way.

When Dr Lecter stepped out on to a damp tarmac with his coat wrapped around his left arm, a swift shadow appeared from the fog cloud. A long dark object, raised above, came down with a crushing force. Everything happened so fast that Meredith Octavius, recoiling from his attacking strike, didn't notice it happened.

The lightning speed with which his foe deflected the devastating blow of the hefty wrench, aimed at the silky temple, startled Meredith. It must've been the astonishment of his failure that made his arms unexpectedly limp and heavy; his legs started to fold when his intended victim with power and agility, surprising for an old man, picked Meredith's rag doll body and dragged it back to the car.

Sitting on a passenger seat of his two-seater Jaguar Coupe, Meredith, unable to control his limbs, observed the rest of his life in a slow motion. He watched the stranger make himself at home at his, Meredith's, own steering wheel. He tried to tell him to fuck the hell off but felt the salty liquid bubbling instead on his lips. He tried to kick his leg out but only slid helplessly down the seat. He was getting very short of breath…

As Meredith Octavius struggled to understand the slipping world around him, Dr Lecter moved Jaguar further down the road and parked on a verge, under a large crown of an old oak tree. Then he switched on the cabin light and turned to his attacker with a disturbing expression of cheery delight.

Glancing down his chest Meredith could now see that his pullover and the front of his trousers were soaking wet, hot and sticky.

"Good morning, sir." Dr Lecter said, as though he was a London cabby, and, noting bewilderment in his companion's drooping eyes, added. "Ah, would you like to see the source of your discomfort?"

Dr Lecter helpfully rolled up the blood soaked sweater and parted the slit trousers, and that is when the reality of this hideous situation finally hit Meredith Octavius with a splitting pain in his chest and stomach.

He was ripped badly, from the depth of his manhood, along the entire length of his torso, the sucking wound disappearing somewhere under the rolled sweater. Watching the dark red blood, almost black under the scant light, spilling out, rapidly depleting the treasured reservoirs of his body, he imagined that is how a gutted fish must feel. Watching his life slithering away, gashing out from the artery wound, spraying everywhere, one absurd thought was hypnotising Meredith Octavius. _Here he was, sitting idly on his arse, while the fucking blood was staining the upholstery and interior of his forty grand Jag…_

"Not long now, Mr…, umm hmm, Pratt, is it?" Dr Lecter said in his sweetest voice. Even as his vision started to fail, being addressed as Mr Pratt triggered a spasm of indignation on Meredith's twisted face.

"No?" Lecter said. "What would you like me to call you?"

It took almost everything out of Meredith but he breathed it out. "Meredith… Octavius… Death…" What he had left was just enough for Meredith to hear the stranger speak, feeling the hair rise on the back of his neck.

"Umm, Sir Meredith…, now I am going to tell you what I am intending to do with you. After I pierced your heart – just to make sure – I am not a barbarian," Dr Lecter opened his Harpy knife. "I'll remove your thymus and pancreas and anything else I'll find appetising. Then I'll leave you here, in your car… Would you like to be placed on the driver's seat? Yes? Of course, I'll oblige. You can trust me, you know."

"I hope your liver is up to scratch… There's a recipe I haven't tried in a while… What shall I call it today…" Dr Lecter pressed his bloody finger against his pursed lips. "Hmm, _Salad de Foie au Meredith Octavius Confits_… Splendid. Lunch is promising to be once again exquisite."

If Meredith Octavius wasn't dead, he might've found it comforting that he finally had his recognition at the dinner table of Dr Hannibal Lecter.

When Dr Lecter returned to his car, he went to the trunk and retrieved an ice box where he placed the harvested delicacies. Then with a wet towelling cloth he cleaned the blood off his hands and face. His clothes were beyond redemption. So he changed there, by the roadside, choosing a beautifully cut dark blazer and flannels from the ever-present leather suitcase.

Soon after he was on his way. As he drove past the parked Jaguar, he didn't give it another glance. On the red bonnet dewdrops looked like bloody tears, oozing through from the blood splattered interior. The driver inside seemed to have nodded off with his hands on the steering wheel. His face would've looked peaceful if it wasn't for the brown crusts of drying blood.

With the advancing morning the birds have rekindled their trills and mating calls. Hannibal Lecter wound down the window and breathed in the invigorating aromas of mid-spring. Driving along to the sound of Bach, he was contemplating the success of the last night hunt.

_Hook, line and sinker_… Satisfaction played on Dr Lecter's lips. _The limey took the bait hook, line and sinker_…

He was handing the room key and a mauve envelope to the concierge when the Englishman stormed in to the lobby, spitting rage, and for some time Dr Lecter had been observing the endearing performance unnoticed while considering his calculations. The self-obsessed poseur was perfect for his scheme…

The rising sun burned through the fog, rapidly clearing the vast areas of countryside. Dr Lecter picked up speed; he had a long drive and a long day ahead. He was looking forward to it…

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_to be continued…_

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As ever I'd appreciate your reviews. 

CE


	3. In the dungeon of our souls…

_Storyteller's Notes_: Thank you very much for your reviews and for your patience. I really appreciate your opinions.

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_Disclaimer_: as in the first part as it is continuation of the story...

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An old farmhouse is a picture of rural tranquillity, the sort you'd send from a long vacation to your co-workers, back at the stuffy office, to add a green colour to their pale faces. 

A hand-written sign at the turn off a quiet country road informs in English that a home-made cider is available for purchase here. A long drive leads to a quaint grey-stoned building, standing alone among the rows of apple orchards.

Clarice Starling doesn't see the serenity and rolling spaces of blooming Calvados though. She is hooded, handcuffed, compressed between two agents in the back of a dusty sedan. One of the agents armpits are ringed with a goat-smelling sweat, the sidearm of the other is digging into Starling's ribs. Handcuffs feel alien on her slender wrists. She has no illusions, there is more to come. It is going to be a long day. _God fucking shit of a day…_

Between the mapping down the yards and turns in her memory palace's navigation helm, she takes a sinister pleasure in cursing Dr Lecter under her breath… …_Son-of-a-bitch… what the fuck is going on?... _

Finally the car softy rocked to a stop, Starling was helped out and into the house. A long blind journey along the halls, through the creaking doors, down the steps, to a stale smell of dampness and decay. _How ironic that her career in law enforcement should start and end in the dungeons!..._ In fact, thinking about it, her government service was plagued by dungeons and oubliettes… Far too often, she looked into the oubliettes of people's souls, their ghastly stench left her lifeless… And enough of these were the souls of men sworn to uphold the law…

They finally reached their destination when one more door creaked, and Starling was dumped onto a bolted down metal chair. As the hood came off, she had to wait until her eyes adjusted to a flood of light that left her feeling exposed as though if she was an actor on a stage. _Well, there was the part to play._

She couldn't see the people in the room, only their ghostly shapes. The light travelled farther along the cement floor. Starling recognised a pair of Bouvier's DocMartins, a tripod, then three pairs of men's shoes standing in a row. _Laurie and the two agents she'd shared the back seat with._ A pair of brown nubuck lace-up oxfords, with some serious thick carpet mileage and one careful owner, suggested a small man, sitting in the corner to the left. In the opposite corner a muted light balanced on the polished tip of a black "vamp and tassels" loafer as its wearer bobbed it up and down in the air. The fact that the Frenchman's shoes were absent from the line-up confirmed her early conclusions about the pecking order.

The French weren't on it. The dull-eyed _Commissaire _was to provide the cover and any going info but not much else. If Sneed's in charge, he was here "off the record"… _The whole set up is a hush… what did the mop-head say... "sweet and quiet"… sumbitches intend to smuggle Dr Lecter out… without an extradition pain-in-an-ass… Well, fuck you… I have a bargaining chip after all…_

Starling remembered Bob Sneed too well. Krendler's crony. A bottomfeeder. After the Drumgo disastrous raid, the cocksuckertried to pin on her the blame for the ugly mess at the Fish Market shootout… Looking down at the handcuffs on her wrists, she remembered sitting in the interrogation chair at their last encounter. Remembered Sneed's face, pale with anger, when she leaned close to the underhand microphone on his tie and said, _"I'm perfectly happy to acknowledge the sort of person Evelda Drumgo was, Mr Sneed: She was better than you..."_ Starling closed her eyes. She was in deep deep shit… She didn't expect any favours.

From the loafers' corner came the voice she loathed. Krendler's voice. The resemblance was uncanny…

"Clarice M. Starling, you are not under arrest. Not yet." Sneed didn't feel a need for introductions. "You are helping with our enquiries. Also, since you are under the US Inspector General's investigation we are expecting your full cooperation. But, first, there are a few formalities we have to get out of the way. I trust I have your consent for the full body search. I believe you are familiar with a _pat_ search, Agent Starling. Benny?"

A pair of man's shoes broke the line and walked into the light. The sweating agent took off her handcuffs and said. "Stand up next to the chair, …spread out, …hands behind your head."

She knew what was coming. _A crusher_. Unable to draw on the French for support, Sneed couldn't afford any attention. "Sweet and quiet" was the key to his bounty. He had to rely on Starling's cooperation. He thought he had to crush her to be sure of her cooperation.

What did she have in her arsenal? Just herself. And years of practice and self-denial…

What was Sneed's armoury? _Intimidation_. In its simplicity, it _all_ came down to it. The groping hands of Benny the Sweaty Agent on her breasts, thighs, and crotch were just the tools. She didn't doubt that's just a beginning. Keeping up appearances of legality while pushing the boundaries. _How far would he go? _Sneed was a climber. His stakes were high. Should he need to break her to get what he wants, he won't hesitate…

She could live trough that… She could deal with it later when weakness won't be an impediment…

What concerned Starling the most was the presence of the nubuk oxfords in the corner. She hoped they were there for a different reason that the one she was anticipating…

"She is clean, sir." Benny waited for further orders.

"Okay, Benny..." A pale narrow hand poked into the light and waved the man back to his position by the door. Then Sneed's face wandered in as he leaned forward, lips quivering. "Now take your clothes off, Starling. Next chapter in the manual is a _strip_ search. We'll do it by the book. Agent Bouvier is qualified to perform this enviable task."

Starling heard a chuckle. _A titter went around the court,_ she thought of a joke Dr Lecter shared with her once. With his taste for the all things exquisite, Dr Lecter had a fond appreciation for the British sense of humour.

"I feel obliged to give you, Starling, a fair idea of what to expect should you choose not to cooperate." Sneed said, the silence broken by the snapping of the latex gloves. "One thing is to read the textbooks at Quantico, the benefit of personal "hands-on", hmm, experience is quite another… Puts things into a right perspective, I'm sure you'd agree."

* * *

The alluring fragrance of the Champs-Élysées fashion houses teased Bouvier's senses as she passed into the darkness Starling's clothes. Then the door creaked, and for a moment a dim corridor light revealed hungry eyes of the camera and of the agents, propping the wall by the entrance, as Laurie stepped out into the passageway, his face burred in her lingerie, atop of the pile of the clothes in his arms. Her stilettos swaying off his little finger. 

"Please, sit down, Ms Starling." Bouvier said, a mag-lite flashlight pinned behind her ear. "I'll start with your cranium hair."

Watching Starling bent her head down, Bob Sneed couldn't deny the elegance and calm grace the bitch possessed. Even sitting naked under the spotlight. _Even when someone's looking for lice in your hair and shining a torch up your nose.._. He remembered Krendler's eyes, gliding up her legs, as she sat, defiant and tight-assed, in Clint Pearsall's office. For once he didn't agree with his mentor – true, the "town" was full of "cornpone country pussies" but not like this one. This one he wanted to taste. This one he will taste…

Bouvier had finished with the inside of Starling's ears and mouth. As Starling stretched her stiffen bones, the red strands swelled over her ivory shoulders, and for a moment, a faint aroma of fine perfume charmed the musty air of the basement. "Stand up, please, legs apart, hands behind your back." Bouvier crouched down, her latex fingers parting the ginger curls. Close, Starling's skin smelled of almonds. As she stood up, Bouvier glanced towards Sneed's corner.

"Carry on, Bouvier. Give Agent Starling a full service." Sneed grinned. "And take your time; a _body cavity_ search is very demanding. Particularly, for the audience..." He sniggered. The shoes by the wall shifted and shuffled - Bouvier was obstructing the view.

"Ms Starling, squat and cough… Thank you… Now stand up, please, put your hands on the back of the chair and bend down, relax your pelvic muscles,.. cough,.. and again." Bouvier changed the gloves between the inspections.

Yes, Bouvier was smart, and being smart, she knew it wouldn't hurt to be polite, particularly, where the infamous Dr Lecter was concerned… _Or his whore…_ _Is that what she believed Starling was?_ Bouvier didn't know. That what they called her at the briefings. Among the other equally undesirable things… Back at Quantico Starling was a legend, an embarrassment and a cunt… Depends who was giving you the earful of their crap. The truth was, nobody knew Starling close enough, including that righteous bitch Mapp.

Now Bouvier found herself a breath close to that legend. Touching her lean body, she tried to distance herself from the thought that she was placing her gloved fingers in the most intimate places, where the monster had been pleasuring himself, and, probably, not so long ago. The thought was repulsing. And hypnotising…

_Why?_ Bouvier had sought to understand. Why had this attractive woman forsaken her independence to become the monster's plaything? Why had the sworn agent chosen to betray her oath and join the killer on the run? Bouvier had no answers, but, as any smart person, she believed in the power of intellect and observation. What she wasn't prepared for that she actually liked Starling. In fact, and she would never admit to it, even to herself, that she would rather be like this naked _whore_, fondled, exhibited and humiliated, then the likes of Sneed and the rest of the dickheads in this goddamn safe house, liking their lips and stroking their cocks in their sweaty pockets. Perhaps, even then the most of the agents she encountered over her FBI career.

* * *

With Starling's face hidden in the shadows, Sneed observed her body for the signs of distress and submission. He saw her distress then. Back muscles knotted in tension, quivered, when she felt the intrusions. _Not enough submission though… We'll see about that…_

"Now, Bouvier, you can demonstrate to the _Special_ Agent Starling the meaning of _Vanilla Bitch_ position she'd have to get used to in a slammer… They'll love you there, Starling. Bull bitches would go all dewy-eyed over you – ah, a former government agent, they'd really make you feel _special…_"

"Sir?" Without looking, Bouvier was aware of a tinge of contempt in Starling's icy eyes upon her. She wasn't going to make it any easer for Bouvier.

"Is there a problem, Bouvier?"

"Yes, sir, there is. That's bullshit. You said, do it by the book… My duties don't include a custodial abuse, sir…" She dropped the used gloves into the evidence bag, straightened up and consciously lowered her voice, recognising the risk of her indiscretion, "…besides, I am not the biggest bitch in the yard…"

"Agent Bouvier!"

The bobbing light fell of the loafer's tip as its owner jumped to his feet, walked over and stopped behind Starling.

"Insubordination is contagious, I see… Don't take a leaf out of Starling's book, Agent Bouvier, you'll end up just like the Lecter's lap dancer here,…" Sneed glared at Bouvier over Starling's shoulder, breathing her scent, brushing against her naked back and making a point of not touching… _The fucking dyke is right, of course, she knows she is being taped… There'll be a private moment… with both of them…_ "Fall in line, Bouvier, I'll deal with you later…"

Sneed walked around and faced Starling. "Now, to more pressing business…"

Starling glanced down his pants and said, "Indeed…"

Smile faded of his face, Sneed unhinged his set jaw, said, "Still a perky bitch, Starling? Watch and learn, Agent Bouvier, watch and learn where your smart mouth will lead you if you let it loose… Sit down, Starling!"

"Do you think, Mr Sneed, your boys have finished playing with my underwear? Your fucking chair is freezing." Starling said as she sat down and crossed her legs. She didn't make any other attempt to cover herself.

"Hmmm," Sneed pursed his lips. "Call them upstairs, Benny, and tell Laurie to bring down the robe from the bathroom… And something for her feet…"

"Now, as much as I would love to hear the full story of your travels, Starling, it can wait. We have the more _immediate_ business to attend to first. Where is Lecter?"

"I don't know…" Starling said, looking down. "Since we came over from South America, we've lived separately…"

"Mmm,.." Sneed raised his eyebrows with expression of sceptical disappointment. "Go on..."

"Dr Lecter had encountered someone in Buenos Aires, someone he knew. By chance, I believe…"

"Who? What happened?"

"I don't know." Starling shrugged. "Dr Lecter didn't tell me, and I didn't care to ask, but I know it spooked him… Soon after we left for Europe, and Dr Lecter suggested it would be best to reside in separate dwellings… Besides, he said, it'll give us some personal space to pursue our private interests and hobbies…"

"In other worlds, he dumped you, Starling… Ah, how sad… Of course, there're plenty of younger whores to choose from…"

She didn't reply.

"When did you last see Lecter?

"Two days ago… We went to hear _La Traviata_ in Salzburg…"

"And?"

"Then we had a meal together…"

"And? Jesus, Starling, do I have to pull it out of you bit by bit?"

"We then spent a night together…" Admitting to Dr Lecter's and her intimacy felt like a worst kind of treachery, as much as it hurt at her abdomen, like a cold stone, pulling on her guts.

"Did Lecter fuck you?"

_None of your damn business…_ The flash of anger died in her blue eyes as she knew what he would say next. So she subdued her rage. "Yes, we had had sex."

"We'll need to take some swabs," Sneed said, "from your… from your…"

"Vagina, sir."

"Yes, thank you, Bouvier. There is a good chance you still have got Lecter's DNA inside the… damnit…" _Isn't it curious,_ Sneed thought, he could call that bitch a cunt but he couldn't get his tongue around the female fucking terminology. "Did Lecter use a condom?"

"No." Starling bit her lip.

"Excellent…" Sneed said, delighted with sight of her distress. "Bouvier will take the necessary swabs in a few minutes."

"Yes, sir. With Ms Starling permission."

"I assume we have your full cooperation, Starling?" Sneed turned to Starling.

Starling said nothing as she wandered off, down the leafy alley of her memory palace, Crawford's voice ringing echo through the woods: If you _assume_ when I send you on a job, Starling, you can make an _ass_ out of _u_ and _me_ both. She went looking for him next to the oak tree. _What the hell would you say now, Jack…_ But he wasn't there… He never was when she needed him… She had to straighten her spine and face the men alone…

"Was it good? Starling!" Sneed stood above her. "Was Lecter a good fuck?"

"None of your fucking business." She hesitated a moment, then looked right into his eyes. "And, yes, sir, he was."

Sneed turned away first. "Where did you go the morning after?"

"I don't know where Dr Lecter's gone – he'd left as I slept. I went then to my apartment in Paris."

"Okay, we'll get back to it later. Did you tell Lecter about the blackmail and the meeting with the paparazzi?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"He said he trusts I'd handle it accordingly."

"Accordingly?..."

"Yes, as I saw fit."

"I expect he'd like to know how this morning went."

"I guess so, yes."

"How do you meet with Lecter? Who's initiating the contact?"

"Dr Lecter… Thank you, Agent Laurie, you are very kind… It is always Dr Lecter who calls me… I don't know his number or where he lives…" Starling tied the robe's belt and sat down again.

"Lecter calls you on this cell phone?" Sneed held up the phone from her purse. It's been dusted for prints, crevasses still filled with black powder.

"Yes."

"Are you expecting Lecter to call you today?"

"Any time. He calls as he's pleased. We meet at his invitation or initiation…"

"Like a bitch running to her master's heel…" Sneed couldn't help himself. "Why didn't you try to get away, Starling? Had Lecter been drugging you?"

She didn't reply, studying the lines on her palms.

"Agent Starling?"

"Yes, I believe, Dr Lecter used drugs on me." She fell silent.

"Why didn't you try to get away, Starling, when you could?"

"I couldn't… Dr Lecter is like a shadow… No. No, he _is_ a shadow. _My_ shadow…" Suddenly, Starling looked like a deflated balloon. "…I could never get away... He'd find me wherever I go… One plays his games by his rules or ends up as a garbage can…" Starling bit her tongue and cupped her face in her hands.

Sneed looked at the sorry figure in front, head in hands, tense shoulders, shuddering under the towelling cloth. _Jesus, she is not crying, is she?.. She lost it, she finally lost it… All that bitching up… and now… Pathetic…_

He smiled to himself. What a transformation… Sneed bared his teeth in a quick triumphant smile towards the nubuck oxfords' corner. _And you said she'd be a tough client, Doc… Leave it to the professionals, you said… Yeah, she put up a little fight at first… Look at the cocksucking bush now… You just need to know which buttons to press or…, _Bob Sneed thought with deep satisfaction, …_or, which faucet to shut…_ Starling was as good as ready for the next stage.

In his sweetest voice, Sneed said. "You could've come to us, Agent Starling; we'd look after our own…" Even Sneed sensed how false it sounded.

"A titter went around the court…" Her eyes on her clasped hands, Starling said quietly, noting a little tap by Bouvier's boot at the edge of the shapeless darkness.

"What?" Sneed said.

Left palm over her mouth, Starling waved the question away; finesse of the irony would be lost on Sneed.

He put his hand on the back of Starling's chair and leaned over her. "Okay, Starling, here is your chance to get back on the good books…"

_That'll be the day,.. _everyone in the room thought simultaneously.

"…and Lecter off your back… Forever, this time the sick fuck would get the needle." Sneed turned to Laurie. "Ready upstairs?"

"Yes, sir."

"Great. Now, this is what we are going to do, Clarice." Sneed said, adopting a confidential tone. "We'll go upstairs, have a drink, and, when you are comfortable, we'll talk about our plan of action… You don't mind if we put the hood on again, do you? Let's go then, honey…"

* * *

"_Honey"!... Fucking "Honey"!_ She almost choked. If she hadn't had the hood, tied around her neck, she would've graced the little shit's "vamp and tassels" with the entire content of her stomach. 

The hood was a blessing really – it saved the son-of-a-bitch's face from her teeth as this tedious melodrama had become unbearably boring. Jesus, if it'd gone any longer, she wouldn't be able to hide the yawns. She always knew acting wasn't her calling. But, by God, is it degrading! The pissant was tempting her patience to no end… Thank goodness, she'd managed to steal a little laugh at Paul Krendler's expense to keep her sanity… G_arbage can…_ _Ha..._ Precisely the use Dr Lecter found for Krendler's skull… She'll have to watch out for the Bouvier wench though, quick, doesn't miss a beat. Perhaps, she could turn it to her advantage… She liked Bouvier… Lots of potential there. Would be a shame if she had to kill her…

Starling felt the agents grip her elbows, ushering her out of the cellar and up the stairs. Under the black hood her eyes were sparkling with the ice blue shade of cold. Starling used this moment of respite and, moving along the marble corridors of her memory palace, stark naked and barefoot, she looked for the toxicology chamber, where Dr Lecter had been extensively tutoring her on drugs, tranquilizers and stimulants. Yes, he was there when she pushed the heavy oak door open, busy, as usual, with his experiments.

"Ah, Clarice," Dr Lecter pulled out a scroll. A fine copperplate hand. He glanced down the elegant writing and said. "I think this is the one… Hmm, yes, Dr Doemling is the one, I know, with the penchant for old shoes and nubuck oxfords… as well as corrupt politicians…Let's hope I am right… Then, this is what you'd need to know about his medical preferences and "treatment" techniques, Clarice. Of course, you know, the man is a fraud and a buffoon…"

Dr Lecter's maroon eyes opened wide at the sight of her bare body, stripped of dignity, smeared over with summbitches greedy glimpses, lonely and longing. In the depth of his pupils sparks flew, cloaked her with the hot red plasma, burning the greasy eye-prints off her frozen skin, and she felt the blue ice in her eyes melt, the spring streams running down her cheeks… _Fuck you, Hannibal Lecter… Don't you think you would escape your turn to weep... Quid pro quo, Dr Lecter, quid pro quo… _

* * *

When, finally, upstairs, in the cosy cottage style bedroom, Benny took the hood off Starling's head, Sneed was delighted to observe the shiny streaks, glistening on her tired face. _Yeah, she is ripe for the taking_, he thought, assessing the options, Dr Doemling discussed with him earlier. _I think I'll go with the "Lecter's Choice"… This one's promising to be most enjoyable…_

* * *

_to be continued…_

* * *

As ever I'd appreciate your reviews. 

CE


	4. Variables and Constants

_Storyteller's Notes_: Thank you very much for your reviews and for your patience. Thank you for your encouragement.

* * *

_Disclaimer_: as in the first part as it is continuation of the story...

* * *

Dr Hannibal Lecter sits in front of a Yamaha keyboard, hands hovering over the plastic keys, fingers stroking control buttons and switches. Electronic keyboard is a new experience to Dr Lecter. His preference resigns resolutely with a harpsichord; yet, he is pleased with this superb machine of the young century.

French doors of his rented cottage are opened to the late-morning sun and the delicate fragrance of the blossoming Calvados mixes with the wine's own bouquet, rising from the antique crystal, he acquired on the way home. It wasn't a part of a set, but its pedigree proved irresistible. Dr Lecter's convinced, the hands and lips that touched its delicate forms over the centuries etched a flavour of their own.

His hands exploring the potential of the instrument, he considers the success of this morning. Dr Lecter smiles, recalling the animation he experienced, surrounded by a few wonderful relics, left behind by their long departed owners. Driving through the coastal village, he was lucky to notice this quaint little shop, lost between narrow cobbled passageways, and was rewarded for taking a trouble to look in. Dr Lecter puts this treasure trove into the shopping directory in his memory palace. He would like to come back here some time, together…

Finally, he switches on a harpsichord tone and plays an air written by Henry VIII, "Green grows the Holly." _Endurable…_

Encouraged, he essays upon Mozart's "Sonata in B Flat Major", sharply reminded of his first acquaintance with the harpsichord she loved to hear him play. The taste of her presence after years of waiting. _If I saw you every day, forever, I'd remember this time…_

His indifference is much challenged these days when he is forced to flee and leave behind the things he'd become rather fond off… That is why the Yamaha will do for now… He is comforted by the thought that his late eighteenth-century Flemish harpsichord from the house on the Chesapeake shore is sleeping quietly in a dry temperature-controlled lockbox somewhere in the lands of its origin, together with the theremin, built in the 1930s by Professor Theremin himself, waiting to be delivered, once the predicament is over and he is settled again, hopefully, for good this time…

_Hmm, yes_, there've been some changes since they left Buenos Aires. Ever since he glimpsed Barney behind the binoculars at the opera. Ever since he told her and saw her jaw set. Watching her eyes frost over, he was pleased, in a way, when Barney decided that staying for the second act might be detrimental to his health.

Incarceration had always been an unwelcome consideration. Incarcerated separation became the intrusive fear. A possible fatality of a chance encounter left her restless…

For a few months now they've been on the move. The nomadic existence had little appeal for them both. Listening to the impurities in the voice of the apparatus, Dr Lecter considers the advancement of the events he set in motion. So far he is satisfied. His equations are elegant in their simplicity and brilliant in their complexity…

He must confess, though …the days without her… are very challenging to the peace he found in the last four years…Once again he sees Mischa in his dreams. Again and again he hears rustle of the wind high in the turning trees, rustle of the leaves beneath her feet. Through the forest lightly flying, Clarice Starling is running, running. Looking back in mid-flight, running, catching up with the deer ahead of her, running...

There were times when Dr Lecter didn't worry. Did he want those years of self-sufficiency back? He didn't think so. In fact, these days he sips his own pain of longing for her and finds it exquisite. The fear of never seeing her again, as he discovered, is the most difficult to contain. _A scrawny little deer led away out of the woods_… The mid-spring sun is colouring the light breeze with fireworks of flashes on rustling leaves, the glass of the open windowpanes is dark around the blinding reflections, almost purple. Purple, purple… Dr Lecter's eyes are now closed, his face is lifted and he is playing. Purple, purple, Mischa's star-shaped hands are touching his face with the sun-kissed breeze what is Clarice Starling running through the leaves…

Of course, they meet frequently. Opera, dining out, wine savouring and that royalty of all socialising – sex… His lips curl; the stolen nights are a far cry from the years they'd shared together. Maddening drop in a scorching desert. Every time there is unquenched thirst in her eyes, he knows, she is drained. _Patience, Clarice, patience… All good things…_

His lips stained red by the Château Pétrus, Dr Lecter moves to Bach now. "Variation Two" of the _Goldberg Variations_ running through his hands,in his mind Clarice Starling runs through the leaves. _The deer bounding ahead of her, Clarice Starling running down the path, limned golden with the sun behind her, but this is the wrong deer, it is a little deer with the arrow in it pulling, pulling against the rope around its neck as they lead it to the axe…_

Dr Lecter doesn't notice when the music falls dead, his hands gripping the edges of the piano stool. He breathes deep, breathes deep; the pain for her is piercing. The fear for her is shattering. _Was it a mistake? Bait too far? _Dr Lecter is not in a habit of questioning his judgement and finds it disconcerting. He hears her stumble and fall to the ground, the deer leaps, falls atop her, the leaves are now the bloody snow, the ground, the air, all is veiling red, the stench is unbearable… He hears a thin scream, rising from his chest…

He sits for a long time with his hands at his sides in absolute stillness while his mind's calculating with an exasperating speed.

There, in the palace of his mind, he steps out through the gate that used to lead to the shaded sanctuary of his gardens. Now, as far as he can see, the space is taken by the ever sprawling, moving, breathing chessboard. His chess set is unusual – there are only two white figures, they move at will and to the rules of their making. There are countless black pawns, knights, bishops and rooks, devoid of their king and queen, all are connected through the presented options and possibilities. The rules of their engagement are as vague as the infinity of the choices we make. The variables of our personalities, the functions of our differentials…

Like his famous namesake, Dr Hannibal Lecter surveys the action before him. At the starting flank, where the board tiles are sparkling with clarity, his equations begin brilliantly, and he congratulates himself for his cunning.

The uncertainty of mid-decisions and sub-conclusions, however, is the matter of some concern to Dr Lecter. The spiralling development at the centre of his battleground is formulated by the consequences of the initial ripples. He questions if his calculations are doomed to failure by wishful thinking. Could it be that there are just too many variables and too few constants?

As though a general on a commanding hill, he turns towards the sounds of the fiercest fighting where the White Queen towers above the besieging sea of black pieces. Toxic yellow-and-brown clouds cling to the lone figure; lead rain pelts her delicate statue, chinking at the deep ice of her armour, bloody snow oozing through the cracks… Still she moves to the will of her own… General Hannibal Lecter smiles at the sight that pleases him – the constant he can rely on, the essence of Clarice Starling. Sparks fly from the deep darkness of his maroon eyes and shower over his Ice Queen, enveloping her exposed body, melting, mending the gaping wounds in her armour with a constant of his own – consistency of his presence, the least _she_ can rely on – he'll be there when she needs him. Always.

And tonight. He'll see her tonight… _Ah, all good things to those who wait._ Hannibal Lecter is certain of it.

Dr Lecter rises without a sound and walks outside through the French doors. He breathes in the space, the sky, the sun of Calvados. He believes the breeze had brought her scent and he savours it on his lips.

_Yes, he'll see her tonight_…

Dr Lecter checks his watch. Time for lunch. _Salad de Foie au Meredith Octavius _would take a best part of an hour to prepare. He doesn't want to be rushed. It's been some time since Dr Lecter had indulged his palette with such delicate flavours. _She had never really developed a relish for some of his more challenging recipes._ Ever ceasing the chance, Dr Lecter is ready to entertain himself.

* * *

_to be continued…_

* * *

As ever I'd appreciate your reviews. 

CE


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